


Enseigne-Moi

by sherlockholmes_doctorwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, John has a French kink, John in Denial, John learns french, Language Kink, M/M, Porn With Plot, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Speaks French, Slow Burn, Smut, like so much sexual tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 06:24:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2014455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmes_doctorwatson/pseuds/sherlockholmes_doctorwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock,” he ventured, pouring the water.</p><p>“What is it, John?” the other man intoned.</p><p>John placed a bag in each mug and went for the milk.  “You know French, don’t you?” he asked casually.</p><p>Sherlock turned to look at him with the same curious expression as before.  “<i>Tes pulls sont affreux</i>,” he replied, raising an eyebrow.  “And before you ask, no, I will not teach it to you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oeufs

**Author's Note:**

> wow okay so this will be my very first multi-chapter Johnlock fic! Hopefully it won't be dreadful. All french is courtesy of my high school language classes and a lot of help from the internet, so if anyone notices any mistakes please let me know. I'm also looking for people to beta and britpick as I write more, so drop a line if you're interested! I'll love you forever :)
> 
> As always, kudos & comments are fab. Love & kisses my darlings xx
> 
> EDIT: desperately in need of someone to check my French. please!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been really hard getting back into the swing of writing longer pieces, but i've got my fingers crossed for this one. too bad my original characters are so terrible, but hey, we're all really here for the johnlock anyway. kisses!

It was just past seven in the morning when thin strains of violin music floated up the stairs and roused John Watson from his sleep. “Shit.” He rolled over, pressing his face into a pillow, but the music grew louder. He flopped onto his back and glared at the ceiling. Just once, John would like to have a lie-in without any explosions, shouting, or string instruments, but he knew that was little more than a fantasy with a flatmate like his. Donning his slippers and robe, he shuffled down to the kitchen.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he called, not expecting an answer. He busied himself at the kettle, trying unsuccessfully to enjoy the music. It was pretty enough, he supposed, and Sherlock was an extraordinary violinist, but John himself was a military man and was accustomed to an orderly morning. He liked his tea, he liked his jam on toast, and he liked it quiet.

He emerged into the living room and set a cup of tea on the table by Sherlock, who continued to play without so much as a hiccup. John settled into his chair with the newspaper and chewed his toast. Finally, the last chords of the piece rang out and Sherlock lay the instrument down gently in the case. “Oh, John, hello,” he said, apparently just noticing the doctor’s presence. He took up the tea absently and sipped it.

“You could have waited till I woke up to play that bloody thing,” John said a bit testily.

Sherlock was now making notes on his sheet music. “I thought you went out.”

“It’s seven in the morning, Sherlock,” John sighed. Sherlock didn’t answer. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

Sherlock lifted the violin to his chin again. “No,” he replied, sounding bored. “Are you doing the shopping today? I need rubbing alcohol and cotton swabs.”  


John headed for the shower.

 

Tesco’s was a veritable ghost town so early in the morning. John ambled sleepily through the aisles with a hand basket, collecting all the ordinary things like eggs and bread, and some not-so-ordinary things for Sherlock—glue, matchbooks, and a very specific brand of drain cleaner. What the detective would be doing with these things, he had no idea, but he was fairly certain it would involve body parts and would probably end in a fire. It struck him how he felt a rush of fondness for Sherlock at the thought, the way most people feel when they think about someone’s smile or their laugh. No, with Sherlock, even his catastrophic experiments were somehow endearing. John chuckled to himself as he turned into the next aisle.

He collided with someone in a flurry of movement and dropped the hand basket. Groceries flew everywhere. “Shit, I’m so sorry—” he stuttered, steadying himself. “My fault, I wasn’t looking…” John looked down at the woman on the floor and trailed off with a fuzzy sort of feeling as he watched her scramble for her things. The carton of eggs he’d been carrying had burst open and there was a runny yellow mess on her leg. Long, slender, beautiful legs, he realized, and the fuzzy feeling spread. Her auburn hair was twisted up in a loose bun and she looked up at him then, with striking green eyes, and John felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. “Here, let me help you,” he offered, kneeling, and began scooping things back into her basket.

“ _Merde_ ,” she said under her breath, wiping at the mess of egg on her shin, and John felt his brain go offline. Wordlessly he drew his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She smiled shyly. “ _Merci_.” She dabbed at the mess and John realized suddenly how bright and hot it was in the store. “I am so sorry,” she was saying breathlessly in a thick accent, straightening her blouse, “It is my mistake. I did not watch in front of me.” A little curl of reddish hair had fallen from her bun and John had the sudden urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. He stood and helped her to her feet, his hand burning where they touched. “Your eggs—I am so sorry,” she said, gesturing to the floor.

“Oh, no, it was all my fault,” John replied with a dismissive wave. “I was distracted. Please, let me get that for you,” he added as she moved to pick up her basket.

“ _Merci_ ,” she said with another dazzling smile. “Such the gentleman.” John flushed to the tips of his ears. She was stunning, slim with all the right curves, high delicate cheekbones and full lips—and French, he reminded himself with a jump in his stomach. John would never have admitted it to anyone but sometimes, when he was feeling just the right amount of lonely and horny, he liked to watch old romantic French films and toss one off. Something about the way the rich language fell from the actresses’ lips was so sexy, almost filthy to his untrained ear, and though he had no idea what was being said he could listen to it for hours. Even now, standing in the aisle at Tesco’s under fluorescent lights with egg yolk on his shoe, a simple _thank you_ was sending a little flare of heat to his groin.

John shifted and coughed. “Again, I’m so sorry, Miss…what was your name?”

“Isabelle,” she purred. “And you?”

“John,” he said, offering his hand, which she shook. “John Watson.”

“John," she repeated with another radiant smile, and somehow his plain name sounded almost sinful in her mouth. “ _Enchantée_.”

“Listen,” he began, hardly believing his courage, “uh, can I take you out for drinks later this evening? As an apology.” John couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed this hard, but he guessed it hadn’t been since he was a teenager.

Isabelle popped open her purse and jotted something on a piece of paper, folded it, and pressed it into his palm, leaning to whisper into his ear. “Eight o’clock. Text me. _J’ai hâte_.” And then she was gone, leaving John half-hard and open-mouthed, staring after her.


	2. Le Premier Cours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock sit down for John's first French lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first french lesson! Huge thanks to Julie290 for checking my french for me. As always, comments and kudos are delightful. love and kisses my dears xx

“Who was she?” Sherlock was leaning on the counter, watching John put away the shopping.

“How did you—? No, never mind, I don’t want to know how you worked that out,” John replied, placing the milk in the refrigerator.

Sherlock eyed him. “Well?”

John sighed. “Isabelle. Her name was Isabelle. God, she’s gorgeous—legs a mile long, green eyes—French,” he added with a private smile.

Sherlock crossed his arms. “I see. And she gave you her number.”

“How—?”

“Paper sticking out of your pocket,” Sherlock smirked. “Can’t you even go for milk without flirting?”

“I wasn’t flirting, we just happened to…run into each other. Literally. And I asked her if she wanted to go out for drinks.” He tossed the bags away and glanced sideways at Sherlock, who was watching him with a curious look on his face. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

“Merely testing the accuracy of my deductions,” Sherlock sniffed with a wave of his hand. He snatched batteries and drain cleaner off the counter and busied himself with a beaker, his sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, muttering to himself. John filled the kettle and reached for the cupboard.

“Tea?”

“Mm,” Sherlock answered distractedly, now cutting the tops off the batteries with a knife. John watched, leaning against the counter, struck again by the odd comfort of his flatmate’s eccentric behaviour. He thought back to when he’d first arrived back in London, the excruciating mundane days he’d spent alone in his tiny flat, guiltily wishing he were back in Afghanistan for something, anything to break up the quiet stretch of hours. Now he couldn’t imagine a life without adrenaline-fuelled chases, the weight of his pistol in his waistband, staggering into 221b at two in the morning out of breath and giddy with the rush of a case. Even small fires in the kitchen and chemical stains on the linoleum were workaday now.

The kettle whistled and John suddenly felt the spark of an idea. “Sherlock,” he ventured, pouring the water.

“What is it, John?” the other man intoned.

John placed a bag in each mug and went for the milk. “You know French, don’t you?” he asked casually.

Sherlock turned to look at him with the same curious expression as before. “ _Tes pulls sont affreux_ ,” he replied, raising an eyebrow. “And before you ask, no, I will not teach it to you.”

John snorted. “That is not what I was going to say.”

“Please, John, you’re all too predictable.”

“Fine,” the doctor grumbled. “Why not?”

“Because,” Sherlock said, “it would be nearly impossible, and a waste of my valuable time.”

John glanced pointedly at the battery halves now bubbling ominously in a beaker of blue drain cleaner. “And that—whatever that is—that’s a good use of it?”

“This,” Sherlock sneered, “is a very important experiment regarding the manufacture of methamphetamine, which, if you will remember, was the crime in one of our cases last month.”

“You’re making meth in our flat?!” John spluttered.

“Nooo,” Sherlock frowned. “Honestly, John, were you paying attention when we raided that woman’s lab? Even Anderson would know that you need ephedrine to cook meth.”  


John pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just—never mind. Look, will you teach me or not?”

“Not,” Sherlock said shortly. He made to turn back to his beaker when John placed a hand firmly on his arm and looked at him, biting his lip.

“Sherlock, please. I really want to impress her.” He stared hopefully up and Sherlock felt a twinge of something unfamiliar—sympathy, perhaps? It was highly uncharacteristic of John to be so unsure of himself with a woman, evident in the flush around his ears and the way he was now chewing his lip. Sherlock had never had a true friend in his life before John, let alone helped a friend to win someone over. The thought made him distinctly uncomfortable, but beneath that was another surge of something like caring, so he pursed his lips and sighed.

“Fine, yes, all right,” Sherlock relented. John grinned and clapped him on the back. “But please, do try to be less of an idiot than usual. It’s a difficult language and I am not a patient man.”

John laughed, seemingly more relaxed now. “I’ll be the perfect student, you tosser,” he chuckled. “When do we start?”

 

They made a list of all the French John already knew— _oui, non, bonjour, au revoir, merci_ , and _les toilettes s’il vous plait_. John insisted that he also knew most of the words to “Alouette”, but when Sherlock asked him to translate John admitted that he had no idea what any of it actually meant.

“Something simple to start,” Sherlock said. “How are you?” 

“Fine, thanks,” John replied. 

Sherlock scowled. “No—how are you? In French we say, _ça va_?” 

“ _Ça va_ ,” John repeated clumsily. 

“ _Oui_. Very good. Now, if you want to say you’re well, simply respond, _ça va_ , again.” 

“I thought _ça va_ was how are you?” John was beginning to regret this decision. He had opted to take Spanish in high school, thinking it would prove more useful in the army—it seemed already that French was leagues more complicated. 

Sherlock sighed. “Yes, John, but it can also act as the answer to the question. So if I ask you, _ça va_?, you reply…?” 

“ _Ça va_ ,” John grumbled. 

Sherlock smiled broadly. “ _Bon_. Now, let’s say, you look lovely tonight. _Vous êtes jolie ce soir_.” 

“ _Vous êtes…jolie ca sware,_ ” John tried. 

“ _Ce soir_.” 

“ _Ca soir. Vous êtes jolie ca soir._ ” 

Sherlock shook his head with a huff. “No, John, listen carefully— _vous êtes_ …” 

“ _Vous êtes_ ,” John repeated. 

“ _Jolie ce soir_.” 

“ _Jolie ce soir. Vous êtes jolie ce soir_.” 

Sherlock clapped his hands. “That’s it, John, wonderful! Again!” 

John did not look quite as cheerful as his flatmate. “I feel ridiculous,” he muttered, his cheeks tinged pink. “Like a bloody ponce.”

“Well, I think you sound rather…classy. Come on, once more.” 

“ _Vous êtes jolie ce soir_ ,” John said flatly with a sour look. 

Sherlock crossed his arms. “John, may I remind you that I am doing this as a favour to you. At the very least you could pretend to be grateful.” 

John flushed harder. “It’s just—it sounds stupid when I say it. Nothing like when she talks.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock scoffed. “You sound fantastic. I’d even go so far as to say it’s an improvement from your usual stammering.” And he wasn’t lying. As they continued on, Sherlock couldn’t help but stare at John’s lips where the sounds tumbled out, the way his tongue flicked out to wet them when he grew frustrated, the blush on his neck that slowly faded as he grew more and more comfortable. It was mesmerizing, in a way, and as John’s pronunciation became stronger and his tone more confident, Sherlock found himself getting warm. He tried to ignore the feeling, drilling phrase after phrase rigidly. 

“Say it again,” he instructed. 

“ _Vous avez de beaux yeux,_ ” John hummed. 

“More wine?” 

“ _Plus de vin_?” 

“Try the fish.” 

“ _Goûtéz la…er, le poisson_.” 

Sherlock shifted in his chair, looking away. “That’s—yes, good, very good. I think that’s enough for now, don’t you?” He made to stand up when John cleared his throat. 

“That’s all fine, Sherlock, but what about—well, you know…” John was blushing again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Something a little more…intimate?” 

Sherlock coughed, suddenly wishing he were at gunpoint, or handcuffed to Anderson, or anywhere else at all. “Intimate?” he echoed, feigning innocence. “You can tell her she has beautiful eyes, what more could you need?” 

John fidgeted with the hem of his jumper. “Well, what if I want to…kiss her goodnight?” 

It took all of Sherlock’s willpower not to scowl dramatically at that. “I may not be very familiar with kissing, John, but I was under the impression it was a rather silent activity.” 

“I mean,” John said, still fidgeting, “if I want to ask her permission?” 

Sherlock snorted. “I never took you for a timid man.” 

John flushed even deeper red. “She…well, she called me a gentleman. I’d like to live up to that.” He stared pointedly at the wall. 

“Hmph.” With all this talk of courtship and romance, Sherlock’s stomach was beginning to twist into knots, but he reminded himself that this was very important to John, and he’d promised to see it through. Sherlock cleared his throat. “ _Puis-je t’embrasser_?” he murmured, feeling his cheeks warm. “Can I kiss you?” 

John stared back at him for a tense moment before he parted his lips. “ _Puis-je t’embrasser_ ,” he repeated softly. They sat for several long, uncomfortable seconds, deliberately avoiding eye contact, when suddenly Sherlock’s text alert rang from across the room. Sherlock jumped up and crossed briskly to check the message. John turned in his chair. “Thanks for the help, mate,” he said. 

“Mm,” Sherlock responded, now swiftly composing a text message. John rose and headed for his room, completely unaware of his flatmate’s eyes on him as he climbed the stairs. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. All this business about women did not sit well with him, he decided, and hoped that John would lose interest in this Isabelle very soon. 


End file.
